Don’t Know Their Own Monkey-Business

, , , , , | Learning | June 15, 2018

(I teach seventh- and eighth-grade science. Our local zoo is reopening the exhibit that houses monkeys, apes, and other similar animals. There is a special open house for teachers. Immediately after school, I pick up my three-year-old at daycare and head off to the zoo. We enter the exhibit and come to the spider monkeys. My son asks what they are. Before I can answer, [Teacher #1] says:)

Teacher #1: “Those are spider monkeys, honey.”

(She and [Teacher #2] seem to be pacing us. At the next exhibit:)

Teacher #2: “Look, honey, those are mandrills, like in The Lion King.”

(At the next window:)

Teacher #1: “Those are orangutans. They look like orange men.”

(We get to the next window. The animals inside are clearly eager to see people and hang from the glass in front of my son.)

Teacher #2: “Look, honey, see the monkey?”

(My son has decided he’s had enough of these women.)

Son: “No. That’s not a monkey. That’s a lemur. He’s a ring-tail lemur. That one is a ruffed lemur.”

Teacher #1: “No, that’s a monkey. Let’s see if I can find out what kind it is.”

Me: “It’s a lemur, not a monkey. He’s right.”

Teacher #2: “Oh, this sign says they are not monkeys. They are lemurs.”

Teacher #1: “He needs to learn not to correct teachers.”

Me: “Teachers need to learn to not tell kids wrong information.”

(They were very offended as they stormed off.)

Headless Cords Don’t Mean No Strings Attached

, , , , , | Right | June 15, 2018

As part of my very extensive job description, I do “additional” tech support on home safety devices; that is, I am not the priority call-taker. I help out as best as I can when needed.

One afternoon, this lady called in through our reception line instead of the help line to get help on her devices. The receptionist tried to get her information to either have someone help her out or call her back. She categorically refused to give a name, completely upset at the question. She now demanded to speak to a supervisor.

Again, the receptionist asked for a name to give to the supervisor, very politely. This time the lady lost it and started berating the receptionist. Being too polite to the customer, and knowing that I’m good at helping people, the receptionist walked over to my desk — halfway to the other end of the building — and put the cordless headset on my head, making a face that plainly said, “This one is yours; nice knowing you.” So, I introduced myself and asked how I might help.

Because it was a cordless headset, I walked back toward reception while talking just to make sure I didn’t lose the connection. After about 20 minutes of information for her products and additional info not related directly to our products — including deducing when her house was built and other features about it — she decided she wanted to talk to my manager, though she was in a good mood and thankful for my details. I “warm” transferred her to my manager after a brief recount of my conversation.

After having a quick chat with the receptionist and a bit of a laugh that the lady did not want to share even a pseudonym, I walked back to my desk. As I proceeded past my manager’s office, I heard her state to the lady, “I’m sure he’d be honoured, but he can’t do that. He’s a married father of three, and pretty loyal to his wife.” I burst out laughing.

It turned out she had a daughter in her 20s looking for a good man, and the lady was so impressed by my information, she thought I’d make a great son-in-law.

Since that night, my wife teases me about having a potential new mother-in-law.

Banana-Drama, Part 8

, , , , | Right | June 15, 2018

(I work at a popular steakhouse. One of our mottos is, “No rules, just right,” meaning we basically can never say no to a customer. We give them whatever they want. As I’m sure is obvious, this causes a lot of problems and doesn’t actually help anyone.)

Customer: “I’d like a side of bananas, please.”

Server: “Let me check that we have bananas.”

(The server is relatively new. We don’t carry bananas at all, as this is a steakhouse, and bananas don’t come in our fruit mix or any drinks. We literally have zero bananas in any store. It’s just not a part of our menu.)

Server: “We don’t have bananas, do we?”

Manager: “No. Why?”

Server: “Table eight wants bananas. I’ll let them know we don’t—”

Manager: “Go to [Grocery Store]. If a customer asks for it, we must have them.”

Server: “I have four other tables; I can’t just leave the store!”

(The server actually has to leave the store and another server takes her tables. Since she is gone for a bit, as the closest grocery store is a few minutes away, the server who closes out her tables gets the tip. The one table who asked for bananas is finishing their meal when she returns. The server chops up the banana and takes it to the woman.)

Customer: “Oh, you’re back! You can take the bananas back; I don’t want them anymore.”

(Surprisingly, we still have the same rule, even though that server lost all her tips and the bananas just rotted in the back. We haven’t had a request off-menu since then, and if we ever do, the servers all have an agreement that we don’t let the manager know. Such a stupid rule. Sorry, customers; you won’t always get what you want!)

Banana-Drama, Part 7
Banana-Drama, Part 6
Banana-Drama, Part 5

She Is Fala-full Of Herself

, , , , , , , | Friendly | June 14, 2018

(My roommate’s best friend recently had a nasty breakup, and moved in with us until she can get back on her feet. I don’t really like her; I think she’s kind of petty, and she’s constantly getting angry about things that I consider pretty inconsequential. When this happens, she claims it’s because of my white privilege, no matter what the issue is about. We’re both Caucasian and female, and after a month or so of this, I’m so sick of it that I usually just leave the room. At work one day, I go to pull my lunch out of the fridge, and sigh.)

Coworker #1: “Dude, what’s wrong?”

Me: “Oh, I picked up samosas for lunch, and I was really looking forward to them, but [Accidental Roommate] was guilt-tripping me about it earlier, that it’s not my culture and I shouldn’t be stealing someone else’s cuisine and traditions.”

Coworker #2: “F****** seriously? Look around you!”

(I do… at my Hindi coworkers eating pizza and pasta, my Filipino coworker eating hummus and pita chips, my black, Muslim coworker eating tacos, my Native American coworker eating fried rice and egg rolls, etc. I have to laugh.)

Me: “Okay, fair point.”

Coworker #3: “Seriously, f*** that. Other than [Native American Coworker], everyone’s family came here from somewhere else. They were looking for better lives for themselves and their kids, which includes better food. Tell that b**** to find something worth complaining about.”

Coworker #4: “Plus, I think a lot of businesses would go under if no white people ever shopped there. My mom runs a cafe, and she always said Americans make the best customers because they don’t know how the falafel is supposed to taste, so they aren’t constantly comparing it to their mom’s and grandma’s the way all of her Middle Eastern customers are.”

(I had to laugh, and I enjoyed my samosas a lot more after that. My accidental roommate is moving out in two months, and my coworkers have preemptively started a countdown.)

Not Taking Account Of Your Account Of Events

, , , , , | Working | June 14, 2018

(This occurs about a month after my father passes away. I have been working to get various accounts closed. The one I’m having issue with is his phone carrier. Since I am not authorized to access his account, I have no luck until a monthly payment comes due. Before now, the workers wouldn’t discuss anything with me, understandably, for legal reasons. However, unknown to me, his bank account — which my name was on and has since closed — is set up to autopay to his cell phone. Therefore, I am finally able to get them cooperate with me a bit.)

Worker: “Ma’am, the payment for Mr. [Father] is due and it is [amount].”

Me: “Ma’am, I need you to listen very carefully. [Father] is dead. He died three weeks ago. I’ve been trying to close his account with you guys. I am not paying for a dead man’s account. His name is [Father]. His number was [number]. I even have his SSN and am more than willing to fax you a copy of his death certificate I am currently holding.”

(Line is silent for a few minutes.)

Worker: “Okay. Just a moment, ma’am.”

(Many more minutes go by.)

Worker: “Do you have [other service] with us?”

Me: “Ma’am, I am trying to close my deceased father’s account. To the best of my knowledge ,all he had was your phone service. Please cancel his service.”

(More minutes go by. I can hear her typing something. At one point I hear her talking and laughing with what I assume is a coworker. I am beyond frustrated by this whole ordeal, but continue to silently wait and try to be polite.)

Worker: “Okay, ma’am, it looks like I can send it back to his bank account.”

Me: “Ma’am, his bank account is closed. That is why you weren’t paid.”

Worker: *another long pause* “Looks like I can only send it back to the bank; you’ll have to talk with them.”

Me: *sighs* “All right, thank you. Is his account closed, though?”

Worker: “Yes, ma’am.”

Me: “Thank you.”

(I’m not sure what she’s talking about, so I go back to the bank and wait to speak to a banker so that I can clear this entire mess. I begin to explain the situation to him when there’s a knock on the glass. A see a young woman smiling and happily waving at him.)

Banker: “Hey, [Young Woman]!” *gets up and goes to hug and speak with her*

(I just sit there, floored by this display, but southern politeness kicks in, so instead of yelling at them I glare as hard as possible.)

Banker: *finishes talking to her then turns to see my glare* “I… s-sorry. Sh-she used to work here. She’s going to college. Uh—” *clears his throat*

Me: “How nice.” *explains the situation finally*

Banker: *types on his computer and cross-checks the account number, my ID, and my father’s death certificate a few times* “Okay, looks like everything is cleared up.”

Me: “I shouldn’t have any more issues? No more auto-payments on there?”

Banker: “Nope!” *wide smile* “And please, take this with you, should you ever want to open your own account with us.”

Me: “Thank you.”

(I tossed the pamphlets in plain view into a nearby trash-can.)

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